Monday, 26 June 2017

I know a place not far away, where I can have this solitude. I can wander the fields, unhindered, locate barbel easily and catch a few of them with a certain amount of ease.
There's something within me though, something that stops me taking this easy option.
It's been said by far better anglers than me that "life's too short" to continue with a passion for the Gt. Ouse, and it's barbel.
The problem is, I've been enchanted, the spell is cast and so I have to go, I have to know.
The harsh truth is that I don't even know if barbel still exist in the beat I will be fishing this season.
Just take a bit of time to compute that..I am fishing on a stretch of river that hasn't produced a barbel in four seasons! Add to that, the crayfish make it difficult to present a bait. In reality, I could be sitting next to the river all night hoping to catch something that isn't there, with a bait that might not be there.
I love this stretch, it produced my pb barbel of 14lb 15oz many years ago, and now I have returned...I crave just one more.
I'm going to take you on this journey if you choose to come along, it will be tedious and uneventful on the whole, but maybe, just maybe we'll share the joy of 'just one more'.
So, here I sit again, alone at the rose bush pitch, an old happy hunting ground.
Tools for the job, once again, the Davenport and Fordham MkIV and Speedia Deluxe.

The familiar sounds of the incessant Reed Warbler, the diving Terns and darting 'fisher. All bring back memories of halcyon days.

You can see that I have abandoned the tip isotope in favour of the good old bottle top conversion. I find that the taps and pulls show up far better using this method, whereas the cane tip just seems to absorb them.

When the light fades, the temperature plummets as the heat sink effect occurs down in the river channel. I'm glad I am well insulated and that darkness is short at this time of year.

And so begins another blank night, in blissful ignorance of the fact that I will be reeling in a bare hook at dawn.

Thursday, 22 June 2017

The clanging of agricultural gates and rutted roadways. The dodging of the cow pat and nervously passing my bovine companions. Pigeons arguing among the branches and grass snakes basking in the evening sun.
That familiar stroll along the willow'd bank of the first field, where the river runs deep and the sound of the weir fades the birdsong.
It's hot, really hot. The air full of insect life. I plod on, further, quieter...

A few months earlier my good friend Derren and I had discussed a potential return to this beat. Unfished for two seasons and not much to report in the preceding two. It has lain dormant to many, but not in our minds. In our minds it was a slice of heaven with a secret life, difficult fishing, yes.....but it has mystery.

With the lease secured, we now set about hand picking another eighteen friends to share our return. All places filled, work party completed. It is ours, and only ours.

..Arriving at the far end of the beat I set up the Davenport & Fordham MkIV and Speedia Deluxe combo for a night among the reeds...and so begins my return to the Gt. Ouse..and the first of probably many a blank.
The twilight call of the cuckoo, the smell of citronella..and the hope for gold.